


Father's Day

by RobinLeStrange



Category: Cormoran Strike Series - Robert Galbraith
Genre: Angst, Fatherhood, Fluff, Memories, Other, Snapshots, soul searching
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-10
Updated: 2020-06-21
Packaged: 2021-03-03 18:38:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 15,582
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24640189
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RobinLeStrange/pseuds/RobinLeStrange
Summary: A series of snapshots from the life of Cormoran Strike, all related to fatherhood.
Relationships: various
Comments: 52
Kudos: 56





	1. June 1975

_**June 1975** _

The grounds of St Just in Roseland church were empty now. The parishioners having long since departed home to their Sunday roasts, family card games, and for those lucky enough to be able to afford them, their weekly car washing rituals.

The only figure to be seen was that of a dark-haired young woman climbing the small mound a few yards from the church entrance and disappearing between a clump of trees to the patch of headstones that lay hidden beyond. She was tall and well-proportioned and didn’t appear to care a jot that the hem of her long, cream dress was dragging in the dusty earth as she hauled herself and the baby she was carrying in her arms upward.

She made her way purposefully to a headstone in the corner of the small area of lawn and dropped down on a large stone nearby with a sigh, her eyes scanning the lettering etched in granite.

**William David Penrose**   
**1903 - 1969  
**   
**Beloved husband of Helen**   
**Father of Edward and Leda  
**   
_**‘Sleep on now, and take your rest’** _   
_**Matthew 26:45** _

Hot tears welled in her eyes and she cuddled the little boy closer, stroking his dark curls, whilst he in turn fiddled restlessly with the fringing on her multicoloured, crochet waistcoat.

“Hi Dad,” the woman said, “I’m sorry you’ve have to wait such a long time for me to introduce you. He was too tiny and it was too cold to bring him at Christmas,” she turned her son round on her lap to face his grandfather’s grave. “Anyway, it’s Father’s Day now, so here he is Dad. This is your grandson, Cormoran Blue.”

She rested her chin lightly on the child’s head and he looked up at her with wide green eyes. She dropped a kiss on his soft, dark curls.

“So, he’s seven months now, although he looks older, don’t you darlin’? I named him Cormoran after the giant – remember when you used to read that old book of fables to us at bedtime? And he’s the spitting image of Ted…looks nothing like me or his father whatsoever.”

_Which is just as well, the last thing I need is to be reminded of Johnny on a daily basis._

Leda thought of her own father. Twenty years her mother’s senior, he’d already been in his mid-forties when they’d married. Helen had been killed in a freak tidal accident when Leda was just sixteen and her older brother was twenty. William had died of a stroke less than a year later.

He’d been nothing like her child’s father, a hedonistic rock musician who left a trail of broken hearts in his wake. William had been stalwart, loyal, responsible. He’d loved his children wholeheartedly but from a distance as was the case with many men of his generation. Leda had wanted something different for her children, when the time came. But the time had come unexpectedly and now her son had no father to speak of.

She still hoped that Johnny would change his mind, take responsibility for their child. Leda wasn’t interested in marriage, even if he left his wife. She’d been there, done that. She wasn’t even bothered about financial support – she’d manage, she always did. But she wanted her boy to know his dad, for him to take an interest in his first-born son, maybe for little Cormoran to one day have a relationship with his older sister. Leda adored her older brother but had always hankered after a female sibling. She was fond of Joan, her sister-in-law, but it wasn’t the same.

Little Cormoran was getting restless, trying to wriggle out of his mother’s arms, squeaking and gurgling his protests at her holding him tighter. In the distance Leda heard the low rumble of a Triumph Herald pulling up at the front of the church.

“That’s Ted now, coming to pick me up Dad. He’s been amazing, looking after me and Cormoran. His dad’s…not around you see. I don’t suppose you’d approve of that, but I wish you could see your grandson. You couldn’t possibly disapprove of him.”

She stood the squirming boy on her lap and beamed at him. “It’s just you and me, isn’t it babe?”

“He’s a big strong lad and inquisitive too,” she continued to the headstone before her. “Sometimes he gets this look in his eye as if he’s already got a head full of wisdom and then he reminds me of you Dad…I know we didn’t always see eye to eye, especially after Mum died, but I wish you were here. You’d be so proud.”

A fresh wave of tears slid down Leda’s face, grief for own lost father and for the absent one that, despite her hopes and dreams, her son might never know.  
Cormoran watched her, his face puzzled. In his short life, he’d barely ever seen her cry. Even when she was in pain after giving birth, even when she was exhausted from trying to manage on her own when he was tiny, her eyes had always been full of warmth, love and happiness. He reached out a chubby hand haphazardly and it made contact with her wet cheek. She grasped it in her own hand and pressed her lips to his warm, slightly sticky palm.

“What would I do without you my beautiful, precious boy,” she smiled at him, hugging him tight as she got to her feet, in time to see Ted making his way through the gap in the trees.

“You ready to go love?”

“Yeah,” she replied. “I’m ready.”


	2. June 1980

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Rick arrives to take three-year-old Lucy out for Father's Day, Cormoran has some difficult questions for Leda.

Three-year-old Lucy Fantoni stood on tiptoes at the window of the tiny flat in Shoreditch she shared with her mum and older brother. She was dressed in pale blue dungarees with a pink tie dye t-shirt underneath and battered white sandals. Her fine blonde hair was pulled back off her chubby face in a ponytail and decorated with an assortment of garish clips.

“Daddy!” she squealed, at the sight of long-haired man in a Pink Floyd t-shirt and ripped jeans making his way down the path. He looked up at her, smiled and waved.

Leda took her daughter down the stairs and handed her over to her father.

“Have fun darlin’,” she told her with a hug, “See you at teatime.”

Rick Fantoni scanned his former lover. Barefoot in her tatty jeans and a slim fitting t-shirt, she looked thin and tired, lacking her usual sparkle.

“How are you doing Leda?” he asked kindly.

She raised her chin defiantly and looked him directly in the eye.

“I’m fine Rick, we’re all good.”

He nodded, knowing better than to push the subject, and took his leave, Lucy in tow.

Leda made her way upstairs and saw her son at the window, watching his sister disappear around the corner to the tube station, hand in hand with her father. Cormoran was only five but he was a bright and observant child and already beginning to read. Leda hadn’t mentioned the significance of the day, but she’d seen him looking curiously at the cards in the corner shop the previous weekend, and of course now he was at school there was no getting away from other children talking about it.

Her heart sank as he turned to look at her and asked the question she'd been dreading all week. 

“Is my Daddy coming today?”

“No sweetheart, he’s not I’m afraid.”

“But it’s Father’s Day.”

“I know, but your Daddy is working. He’s away with the band in America.”

That at least was true, she’d read it in the Sun a couple of days previously.

“But I never see my daddy. Why doesn’t he come for me like Rick does for Lucy?”

Leda looked at Cormoran, reflecting how, despite the many sleepless nights she’d had since the cards started appearing in the shops, she was still woefully unprepared for this question. She sank into the shabby green Draylon sofa that had come with the flat and indicated for him to come and sit next to her. He was already too big too sit on her lap.

Ted’s genes again, she thought, fondly.

“Sometimes, when two grown ups get together, they decide to make a baby,” she started.

Please don’t ask me how…I really cannot do that conversation as well this morning.

“And sometimes, they make a baby by accident. That’s how I had you,” she watched his face drop slightly, “But accidents aren’t always a bad thing. Do you remember when the shelf fell down in our old flat and all the cups and plates smashed?”

Cormoran nodded, his expression bemused.

“And I used all the smashed china to make that rainbow mosaic, and you helped me. It was really beautiful, and that’s the kind of accident you were, a really beautiful one, the most beautiful one I could ever had wished for.”

“But why don’t I see my Daddy?”

“Because sometimes daddies aren’t as good at dealing with accidents as mummies, but do you know what happens to mummies that have to raise children on their own?”

He shook his head, over long dark brown curls falling in his eyes. Leda brushed them away, stroking his cheek.

“Their hearts grow twice as big, so in here…” she tapped her chest, “I have as much love for you as a mummy and a daddy.”

He looked at her thoughtfully for a few moments then threw his arms around her neck.

“I love you mummy.”

“I love you too darlin’.”

He slid off her lap and went back to the window. The June sunshine was warm now, casting a golden glow over their little street, with its haphazard mixture of residences, and even more eclectic mix of neighbours. 

“Can we go to the park today? And have chips for tea?”

“Yeah,” replied Leda, relieved that her son seemed satisfied with her answers, for now at least. “I think I can manage that.”


	3. June 1985

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A series of unfortunate events sees ten-year-old Cormoran and his younger sister back in St Mawes without Leda, and enrolled at the local primary school.
> 
> Kids can be unkind, but Uncle Ted is there to pick up the pieces.

Ten-year-old Cormoran Strike and his sister Lucy had been back in Cornwall for nearly two months. He wasn’t entirely sure how it had happened, but he knew it was better for both of them than it had been in London, even without their mum.

Leda had split up with her boyfriend, necessitating a sudden and dramatic move from the slightly shabby but clean council house in Camden to a grubby fifth-floor flat-share in Peckham. Bembridge House was a prefabricated concrete block, built around a small green, with a children’s play area in the centre. At first glance it hadn’t seemed too bad, but on closer inspection the ‘green’ was no more than a litter-strewn patch of earth and tarmac, and barely any of the installations in the playground were safe or functional. The teenagers that gathered there regularly, smoking and drinking Diamond White straight from the bottle, were too intimidating to make the idea appealing anyway.

The flat itself, accessed by multiple flights of heavily graffitied concrete stairs, or, on the rare occasion it was working, a lift that invariably stank of piss, was a duplex. The kitchen sat to the right of the front door and a flight of stairs on the left led down to two bedrooms and a bathroom, whilst the sitting room lay straight ahead. Stuart, a man Leda had met whilst working in a record shop, had offered her a room free of charge, so they had packed their meagre possessions and moved in.

Lucy shared Leda’s bed and Cormoran slept on a camp bed crammed into the same room. Stuart was considerably more enthusiastic about Leda’s presence that that of her children and got particularly annoyed when they touched his plants which lined the sitting room windowsill and balcony. A miasma of cloying smoke lingered throughout the place and there were always numerous comings and goings. Sometimes Cormoran or Lucy would wake in the middle of the night to find Leda temporarily missing and then he would reassure his sister that their mother was just talking with Stuart in his bedroom next door, before tucking her into his sleeping bag on the camp bed and laying on the floor next to her, holding her hand until she went back to sleep.

One evening Cormoran and Lucy had arrived home from school, and Leda had not been there to greet them as usual. Four o’clock came, then five, then six. Both children were hungry, and, taking charge as he usually did, Cormoran had managed to find an ancient packet of crispy pancakes in the freezer, put them under the gas grill to cook and fill a pan with oil to fry some chips.

He’d wandered into the sitting room to look for his book, gotten distracted by Lucy who was playing with a stray cat on the balcony and before they knew it there was a crackling sound coming from the kitchen, and long yellow flames licking up the walls above the frying pan.

A passing neighbour had seen the fire, smashed the glass in the front door to gain access and managed to smother the flames with a damp tea cloth. They were still cleaning up the resulting mess and trying to comfort a hysterical Lucy when Leda turned up. She’d been to visit a friend in Plumbstead, but lost track of time and then realised that she didn’t have enough money on her to get the bus home, so she’d walked for over two and half hours.

The following day some strange people came to speak to Cormoran and Lucy at school, and asked lots of nosy questions. There were more well dressed, serious looking but softly spoken strangers in the flat when they arrived home. That night Leda had cuddled them both tightly in her bed, but Cormoran had heard her crying when she thought he was asleep.

The next day Ted and Joan arrived to take them back to St Mawes for a ‘long-holiday’.  
  
Cormoran had been briefly disgruntled when he’d discovered it was the kind of holiday that involved enrolment at St Mawes Primary School, but now, as he rounded up the spoils of his lunchbreak – three new marbles to add to his collection – it didn’t seem so bad.

Except for one thing.

It was a Friday afternoon, the time most enjoyed by Cormoran and his classmates as they got to do something fun before home time and the weekend. Today, though, he dragged his feet a little. He knew what Sunday was, and what they were therefore likely to be doing for the next hour.

As he took a seat at the table he shared with his friends Ilsa and David, and waited for his name to be called for the register, he wondered what his mother might be doing. He knew what his father was doing. He’d seen Joan hastily shoving her trashy celebrity gossip magazine behind one of the sofa cushions a few nights previously, and crept down to read it by the light of his torch, knowing there had to be a reason for her hiding it.

He now knew that he had three further sisters - one just a year older, one the same age as Lucy and another who had just turned five. He also knew that his father, along with his glamorous new third wife, was eagerly awaiting the arrival of yet another baby at their home in the Hollywood Hills.

He picked up the piece of card that his teacher, Miss Wagstaffe, had placed in front of him, and began drawing mechanically. He could feel Ilsa’s sympathetic gaze from across the table and kept his eyes down, concentrating even harder. He supposed he would make it for Uncle Ted, and so he carefully drew a picture of a little fishing boat and added the words ‘Happy Acting Father’s Day’ in blue pencil.

He was, despite his discomfort at the whole activity, quite proud of his efforts and began to relax a little as he wrote inside.

_Dear Uncle Ted…_

Becky Goodman wandered over to borrow a pencil sharpener. She had started at the school not long before Cormoran had moved back, having transferred from one in Falmouth, so didn’t know him well at all. He, however, had quickly ascertained that she was, in his opinion at least, noisy, silly and irritating. She had overly long, mouse coloured hair which fell in wispy rats tails almost to her waist. Cormoran felt it tickle his cheek as she leant over and reached for the sharpener, then paused abruptly.

“What does that mean?” she exclaimed loudly, with a tone of combined confusion and disgust.

“What?” asked Cormoran, looking up.

“That,” she replied, pointing at his card. “What’s ‘acting’ Father’s Day?”

“It’s for my uncle. I don’t have a dad so…”

“Why? Did he die?” She looked very keen to hear any gory details that might be on offer.

“No, he just…he’s just…not here.”

“Why not?”

Cormoran was tired of her questions, of her tone of voice.

“Because he’s a famous rock star and he’s living in America if you must know,” he stated defiantly.

She stared at him for a minute with her mouth hanging agape, making her buck teeth even more noticeable. Then she started laughing.

“Hahaha. Cormoran’s saying he’s got a famous dad in America…” she squealed. “Liar, just because he can’t be bothered to come and see you on Father’s Day…”

Ilsa tried to squeeze her friend’s hand across the table.

“Shut up, Bugs Bunny,” shouted David Polworth, determined to defend his best mate against her taunts.

“Excuse me what’s going on here?”

The shadow of Miss Wagstaffe loomed over them.

“Rebecca’s being really unkind…” Ilsa began to say.

“Nothing,” stated Cormoran fiercely, “It’s nothing.”

They were saved from further debate by the sound of the school bell indicating the end of the day. Cormoran packed his things and stormed out of the classroom, determined to get a head start on his friends, his eyes stinging as he made the way up the hill towards home.

* * *

“Are you sure you’re alright, Cormoran love?” asked Aunt Joan as she bustled around tidying up the kitchen that evening. It hadn’t escaped her notice that unusually her nephew had arrived home alone, throwing his school bag down and heading straight up to his room. When he’d eventually reappeared just before dinner, his face had been flushed and his eyes over bright.

Even Lucy, who would normally try and tease him out of a bad mood, had kept a wary distance.

Joan returned to the table and placed a cool, soft hand on his forehead. “I hope you’re not coming down with something.”

“Actually, I don’t feel very well,” Cormoran agreed, “Can I have my bath and go to bed now?”

“Of course you can, love.”

Lucy scampered off to the sitting room to put on Newsround, and Ted headed out to water the garden while Joan gathered the children’s school bags and hunted through them for dirty lunchboxes, PE kits and letters home.

Instead, from Cormoran’s bag, she pulled out a heavily crumpled piece of card, which she frowned at briefly, before smoothing it out on the kitchen table. Ted meandered back into the kitchen a moment later, saw his wife’s face and stopped in his tracks.

“What’s the matter Joanie?”

She sighed and pushed the card across the table.

He took it, smiled at the picture on the front and opened it.

> _Dear Uncle Ted,_   
>  _Thank you for looking after me (and Lucy)._   
>  _You might not be my actual dad, but you are the best._   
>  _Love from Cormoran_

“Righto,” he said, looking at Joan, who was watching him silently, worry etched on her face, “Look’s like a chat’s in order.”

A short while later, Cormoran heard a knock on his bedroom door before it creaked open and recognised the sound of Uncle Ted’s size fourteens. It was unusual for him to knock and Cormoran wondered if he might be in trouble, even though he was fairly sure he’d not done anything.

Ted knelt down to where his nephew was ensconced on his bottom bunk, having tucked a sheet beneath the upper mattress to create a kind of tent

“Can I come in?” he said, in his familiar warm, Cornish burr.

The sheet twitched, and Cormoran’s face peeked out, mildly amused in spite of himself. Even an average sized adult would struggle to fit in his little fort, never mind the enormous frame of Uncle Ted, who settled instead for sticking his head into the makeshift structure, leaning his elbows on the mattress.

“Rough day at school?”

Cormoran stared at him for a minute, then nodded, sadly.

“How do you know?”

“Ilsa’s mum popped her head over the fence while I was watering the garden and asked if you were alright. Want to tell me what happened?”

Cormoran opened his mouth, then closed it and shook his head, turning away from his uncle so he couldn’t see the tears that we threatening to escape again, his hands balled into fists in his lap. He was still cross with Becky Goodman, cross with his so-called 'dad' and even more cross with himself for crying. He’d seen and heard worse in his ten years than a skinny little girl calling him a liar and teasing him about his absent father.

Ted rested a large, comforting hand on his back.

“Look Cormoran, it’s okay to be upset. Ilsa’s mum told me what Ilsa said had happened. She was upset too.”

“It’s not fair!” Cormoran shouted, his resolve breaking and hot tears pouring down his face. “Lucy sees her dad. My dad has all these other children he sees…what’s wrong with me? Why doesn’t he want me?”

Ted took a deep breath, trying to quell the rising tide of sadness and anger, not only on his nephew’s behalf but also his own. A short while prior to their rescue mission to Peckham, Ted and Joan had had the devastating news they had been dreading for years. To see Cormoran, the nephew he adored, and who he now knew was the closest he would ever get to having a son of his own, hurting so badly broke his heart.

The fact the Johnny Rokeby and his succession of wives and girlfriends knocked out babies at the drop of a hat, then treated this one, at least, with such disregard made Ted’s blood boil. Despite his long-honed and thus far unwavering self-discipline, he knew that if Johnny Rokeby had walked through the door at that precise moment, he would have laid him out with a single punch without a moment’s hesitation for what his feckless, selfish and irresponsible attitude was doing to the young boy sat in front of him, in his favourite Ghostbusters pyjamas.

Cormoran was wiping his face on the hanging sheet now, embarrassed at his outburst, although he had no need to be.

Ted, unable to manoeuvre himself into an angle where he could give the boy a hug, lay a large, soothing hand on his back.

“Cormoran, we don’t know why your fa…why Rokeby, has made the choices he’s made. I know that’s hard to hear, that you want answers and the truth is, I can’t give you those. But what I can tell you is that his decision not to be part of your life is not your fault. It’s nothing you’ve done or haven’t done. Me and auntie Joan, and especially your mum, we all think…we know…that you are a super lad and we all love you to bits. Rokeby’s loss is our gain, because if he was in the picture, we’d have to share you,” he grinned suddenly, “...and we’d all much rather have you to ourselves because we’re greedy like that.”

Sniffing wetly but laughing at the same time, Cormoran grinned back at him.

“I love this by the way,” Ted added, pulling the card from his back pocket and looking at it again as he leaned over the bed, “That boat looks just like Martha. How about we have a trip out on Sunday morning, just you and me? And if we’re back in time, we’ll sneak in a quick visit to the Victory beer garden before Sunday lunch, what do you reckon?”

Cormoran nodded, blotchy faced but smiling now.

“That’s sorted then,” Ted said, getting to his feet carefully so as to avoid hitting his head on the upper bunk, “Are you coming down for a hot chocolate before you settle down? It’s a bit early yet.”

He watched his nephew’s face as he considered his options, realising that if he came down now Lucy would be bound to ask questions about his tear-stained face.

“How about I bring you one up…just this once mind, I’m not doing waiter service on a regular basis.”

“Thanks Uncle Ted, that would be great.”

When Cormoran went back to school on Monday and Miss Wagstaffe asked them all what they'd done over the weekend, he was as proud as any of the other children in his class to show off the treasured Polaroid of him and his Uncle Ted, beaming in the sunshine aboard the little boat he'd drawn on his Father's Day card.


	4. June 1990

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Living in London, but on a short break in St Mawes, fifteen-year-old Cormoran joins Rick Fantoni, Lucy and her half-siblings for an afternoon at the beach.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This snapshot with Rick was inspired by a conversation with him that Strike reflects on in one of the books (I think it's during the Silkworm, drawing parallels between writing girls songs to get them into bed, and Owen Quine writing Kathryn Kent into Bombyx Mori, but happy to be corrected!)

Fifteen-year-old Cormoran Strike sprawled out on the grass in his aunt and uncle’s back garden in St Mawes, bored senseless.

They’d come for a short break away from London due to having a couple of teacher training days, and it had been the worst timing ever. Dave Polworth had just got a weekend job at Fistral Beach, teaching kids to surf, and Ilsa was away in Wales for her cousin’s wedding. Leda had taken off for the day to visit an old school friend, and Ted was working which just left Joan and Lucy. Joan was faffing in the potting shed, whilst he could hear Lucy singing along with a cassette recording of last week’s top forty from her open bedroom window as she got ready for her Dad to pick her up for the afternoon.

Rick Fantoni had just played an obscure ‘throwback stage’ for opening night at Glastonbury, and knowing his eldest daughter was in Cornwall for the weekend had hired a holiday cottage in nearby Portloe for his family over the weekend.

Lucy’s meetings with the rest of the Fantoni clan weren’t particularly regular due to the nomadic lifestyles of both Rick and Leda, but they kept in touch regularly and enjoyed spending time together when they happened to be in the same place at the same time.

 _Which is more than can be said for Rokeby and the rest of his offspring_ , thought Cormoran crossly.

He’d long since gotten over his disappointment at his father’s lack of interest but retained a mild curiosity about his numerous half-siblings – there were two brothers now as well, and at times like this it was hard not to reflect on how things might have turned out differently.

The fact that boredom was making him think about such things only added to his restlessness and irritability, and he felt irrationally disgruntled at his friends for not being at home this weekend.

A knock on the back gate and the sound of the wrought iron latch opening announced the arrival of Rick.

“Alright Corm? I tried the front door but no answer…”

“Yeah, Joan’s in the shed and well…you can hear Lucy,” he grinned, indicating the open window from which Lucy was warbling along to ‘Hold On’ by Wilson Phillips.

“Top bloke, Brian Wilson,” said Rick, referring to the father of two-thirds of the band, “…met him at a couple of festivals in the States way back.” He paused, shuffling his feet awkwardly. “I don’t suppose you’ve heard from…”

“No, wasn’t expecting to. S’fine.”

“How’s Leda?”

“Yeah, she’s good. Visiting an old mate in Truro.”

“Dad!” Lucy ran out into the garden and straight into the open arms of Rick who swung her round amid huge, but good-natured protests. “I’m too old for that now, I’m thirteen.”

“I know, and I intend to take full advantage of your age and baby-sitting skills. I’ve got Em and Bruno in the car and they are desperate to see their big sister.”

“See you later, Stick,” Lucy bid him farewell.

“Have fun,” he replied.

Rick paused, halfway back to the gate.

“Wanna join us Corm? We’re only doing beach stuff, but you’re welcome to come along.”

Cormoran deliberated for a few moments, he hated the thought Rick might be offering out of pity and was reluctant to encroach on Lucy’s time with her father, even if the alternative was dying of boredom at home.

“Yes! Come on Stick…I can have both my brothers and sister together at the same time!”

He looked at Lucy’s excited face, and felt his reservations crumbling in spite of himself.

“Go on then, just let me tell Joan…and don’t expect me to help you with the baby-sitting!”

* * *

St Mawes beach was teaming with families enjoying the June sunshine. Rick stopped to buy ice cream at a kiosk on the pathway before they made their way down to the fine shingle. Lucy immediately took charge of eight-year-old Emma and five-year-old Tom, heading down to paddle with one of them in each hand, while Cormoran and Rick flopped onto the pebbles.

“Does that never bother you?” asked Cormoran, indicating a cluster of women a little older than his mum who were whispering amongst themselves and shooting thinly veiled conspiratorial glances in Rick’s direction.

“What? Oh, that. You get used to it, and I don’t get as much attention as I used to these days…have to make to most of it!” he winked.

They sat in companionable silence for a while, soaking up the sun’s rays and watching Lucy and her siblings at the water’s edge. From behind his sunglasses Rick watched Cormoran surreptitiously, remembering with amusement what it was like to be a fifteen-year-old boy on a sunny beach, surrounded by scantily clad teenage girls.

“Like the blondes do you mate?” he grinned, tracking Cormoran’s eyeline to where a teenage girl probably a little older, with a wide smile, green eyes and a mop of tightly curling blonde hair was shimmying out of her jeans to reveal long, tanned legs and a red and white striped bikini.

Cormoran started, embarrassed to have been caught looking.

“What, no…I…” he saw the teasing glint in Rick’s eye, “Well…” he shrugged, grinning back.

“Not got yourself a girlfriend in London yet then?”

“No, not yet.” He looked down, blushing.

It wasn’t for want of trying but having transferred to his latest school the previous September in time to start his GCSE’s, he’d been surrounded by established friendship groups. Normally quick to settle into any new environment, he’d slotted in fine generally speaking, but discovered that the addition of teenage hormones and a new social hierarchy was somewhat harder to navigate. The attention he invariably got from girls by virtue of being the tallest and oldest-looking boy in the year had landed him in trouble on a couple of occasions already. Things were improving now he’d established a proper friendship with Nick Herbert, and he had high hopes that over summer things might change for the better.

“You know the best way to get a girl interested?” Rick grinned, “Tell her you’re writing a song for her. Never fails.”

“It would if I tried,” snorted Cormoran, “I barely know one end of a guitar from the other.”

“Alright, a poem then. But if you fancy it, I can teach you a few chords later. I’ve got my acoustic in the boot.”

“Maybe,” replied Cormoran, turning his attention back to the girl in the stripy bikini.

* * *

In the early hours of Monday morning, Cormoran crept downstairs and let himself quietly out into the back garden. He’d nearly finished his illicit cigarette when he heard footsteps behind him and rushed to put it out in a nearby flowerpot.

“Ugh, that’s grim,” complained Lucy, “Why do you do it?”

“’Cos I enjoy it, alright?”

“OK, stroppy,” she sat down next to him on the edge of the raised patio. “Back to London later today then,” she continued with a sigh.

“Thank God,” replied Cormoran, who was looking forward to being back at school with friends of his own age.

“I dunno, I think I prefer it here,” pondered Lucy, aloud. “I wish mum would settle down so we could just stay here with Uncle Ted and Aunt Joan, or get a little house of our own in the village.”

“Really?” Cormoran reached for his cigarettes but thought better of it.

“It just feels more like we're a family when there’s all of us. Like with Dad today and the little ones and you…I’m really glad you came, Stick.”

“Yeah, well, nothing better to do,” he grinned down at her, teasing, his eyes twinkling in the moonlight. She punched his arm gently in return.

“You seemed to be getting on well with Rick,” she stated quietly.

Cormoran nodded, “He’s a good bloke.”

Lucy sat for a few moments, fiddling with the hem of her nightshirt, then reached out tentatively and picked up her brother’s hand. He was so surprised he forget to wrest it away in horror.

“I’m sorry about your Dad…” she said softly, “I wish I could…”

“You can’t fix everything Luce,” he answered, giving her fingers a gentle squeeze, “And besides, I can’t miss something I’ve never had. I’ve got you and mum and Ted and Joan. Who needs Johnny bloody Rokeby anyway? I am fine with it, really.”

Lucy sighed, pulled her hand away and gave and expansive yawn and stretch.

“Best get back to bed, long day tomorrow. Are you coming in too?”

“In a minute…you go on,” replied Cormoran.

He waited until he heard the creak of Lucy getting into bed through the open window overhead, and, alone with his thoughts again, reached into his pocket and lit up another cigarette.


	5. June 1995

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cormoran is about to head off to join the army, but has an important visit to make before he leaves.  
> What he's not expecting is company...

The weather had changed dramatically overnight. The previous day the city of London had teemed with life under a canopy of blue sky. Now a layer of thick, ugly cloud cast a yellowish-grey tinge over its buildings and inhabitants, trapping the heat and fumes and creating a feeling of claustrophobia even outdoors.

Cormoran Strike didn’t care about the weather. Truth be told, he wasn’t sure he cared about anything much anymore, apart from getting away. Away from dingy hovels that stank of weed and where a crunch underfoot was as likely to be a used syringe as it was an insect. Away from the endless cycle of make up and break up with Charlotte, and away from her rich, arrogant patronising friends. Away from Lucy’s unbridled emotions and Joan’s cloying attention. Away from the memories…

He knew he couldn’t really escape those, but at least basic training would give him something to focus on and that would exhaust him into the bargain. Cormoran was already fit, but he knew he was still in for a shock to the system. Ted, his sole supporter, had made that very clear. Shock would be good, he thought, as he disembarked the sweaty tube at Mile End and began the short walk to his final destination. Anything would be better than this feeling of almost perpetual numbness.

The warm breeze made an eerie sound in the trees as he strode purposefully along the pathway that was still unfamiliar. There was a new grave next to Leda’s guitar shaped headstone today, and the sight of the small family gathered around it reminded Strike suddenly, and unusually painfully, what day it was.

“Go on then, give Daddy his flowers,” prompted the exhausted looking woman in her early thirties to a little girl of about six, her voice breaking on the word ‘daddy’. She had prematurely greying brown hair, and wore dark blue, bootcut jeans, Doc Martens and an incongruously smart navy jacket. Hearing Cormoran’s approach from behind, she turned slightly and he noticed a colourful array of medals pinned on the left hand side. The little girls stepped back from the mound of earth, leaving behind a small posy of wildflowers – daisies, ragwort, cornflowers and poppies, and her mother reached for her and pulled her close, whilst her toddler son watched, bemused, from his pushchair.

Cormoran slipped quietly passed them and placed his own bouquet of brightly coloured gerberas on his mother’s grave, selfishly hoping that the family wouldn’t stay for long. To his relief they started moving away almost as soon as he sat on the bench opposite.

Immediately his brain was flooded with memories of his mother’s funeral. They had had to wait for longer than was ideal to bury her, due to the circumstances of her death. The one saving grace was that Whittaker had disengaged enough by then to leave the arrangements up to her family. Lucy had spent weeks wailing and sobbing about needing closure whilst Joan tried, largely unsuccessfully, to pacify her. Ted, stoic as ever, went about the practicalities in his usual methodical way, and Cormoran spent hour after hour reading and re-reading the coroner’s report, the news articles, researching Whittaker’s history.

The news reports in particular had made him sick to his stomach. The word ‘stepfather’ jumping out in reference to Cormoran and his sister time and time again, when they had never viewed him as anything of the sort. And then there was the speculation about what would become of Switch, his half-brother. He’d been a little younger than the boy watching his sister put flowers on their father’s grave last time he’d seen him, swathed in blankets in the arms of a nanny alongside Whittaker’s grandparents, Sir Randolph and Lady Whittaker. They’d kept their distance from the funeral party, but Cormoran knew Ted had seen them too. He’d watched his expression become even grimmer, seen his surreptitious change of position to ensure Joan’s view was impeded. The one brief chink of light in the darkness that had followed Leda’s death, was the hope that they might be able to raise their younger nephew. But Whittaker Senior’s bank balance and title had deprived them of that opportunity.

When Whittaker’s trial was over, he’d tried unsuccessfully to regain his son, ending in a violent altercation with his grandfather which had resulted in a suspended jail sentence. Cormoran had felt a strange sense of schadenfreude about the whole affair. Whilst he was not that interested in a sibling eighteen years junior who shared DNA with the man he believed had robbed him of his mother, there was no doubt in his mind that Ted and Joan would have been better guardians, given the mess the Whittakers’ had apparently made of their daughter and grandson.

His gaze fell back on the guitar shaped headstone.

“Alright mum,” he addressed it, after quickly looking around to check there was no one close enough to hear him, “I’ve come to say goodbye…for a bit anyway. I dropped out of uni – I know, I’m sorry – and I join up tomorrow. RMP like Ted. I’ll be Private Strike in fourteen weeks’ time.”

“I’m sorry I let you down. If I’d been there…and I tried in court, but that’s one thing about what I’m doing now. I’ll be able to use the skills I learn to carry on investigating Whittaker. I’ll get justice for you Mum, I promise, no matter how long it takes.”

He’d made the same promise silently at her graveside a few months earlier. He’d never felt more alone, even though he was surrounded by people. Leda’s old friends and neighbours gathered together, mostly casually dressed in colours and garments more befitting a festival than a funeral. His mum, he thought at the time, would have loved it.

Ted, Joan and Lucy had all worn black. Rick had attended and barely left his daughter’s side, taking over from her when she broke down mid-way through the poem she’d chosen to read during the service. Strike had never felt the absence of his own father more keenly. The fact that he was now to all intents and purposes an orphan, was something he still hadn’t quite gotten his head around. It was one thing to not miss an absent parent when you still had the other one, quite different now his mother was dead.

He’d not been without support of his own though. Charlotte had been there, before his obsession with Whittaker’s part in his mother’s death and Charlotte’s increasingly attention seeking antics had caused their relationship to implode spectacularly. Sitting at the graveside with his head in his hands, the distant rumble of thunder edging closer, he imagined he could smell her perfume in the muggy air surrounding him.

“Bluey?”

_Fucks’ sake…I don’t need to be hallucinating now as well…_

“Bluey? It’s me.”

He slowly pulled his head out of his hands and looked up. It had been almost three months since the last time he’d seen her. When she’d returned to their shared house at 5am having gone missing the previous night at the exact same time as Jago Ross had left the party they’d been attending, in Cormoran’s case, reluctantly. Rather than apologize or make excuses, she’d taunted him with the possibility of her infidelity, telling him drunkenly that it was about time he started paying more attention to the living woman in his life rather than the dead one.

He’d thought he’d never forgive her, and indeed he hadn’t initially, even when she’d sobered up and apologised. His stubborn refusal to accept her contrition had escalated into yet another row and eventually, exhausted, he’d told her needed some space. He’d meant a couple of days, but she’d taken him at his word, and he wasn’t the kind of man to beg.

And now here she was in front of him, skin luminous, hazel eyes glittering with concern. Her long, dark hair was pulled into a loose, one-sided plait and she wore a simple white cotton, broderie anglaise sundress that fell to her ankles and a collarless Balmain jacket in butter soft black leather.

“What are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be with Sir Anthony today?” There was an edge of sarcasm in his voice as he mentioned her father.

“I was…we were having lunch at Franco’s, but all I could think about was you leaving tomorrow. I couldn’t just sit there and let you go, Bluey.”

Her gaze fell to Leda’s headstone.

“How are you?”

He shrugged. What was there to say? He didn’t know how he was.

“And Ted and Joan? Lucy?”

He raised an eyebrow at her. “C’mon Char, we both know you really don’t care how they are.”

A flicker of hurt passed across her face, but then her eyes hardened slightly.

“That’s true I suppose. It’s really only you that I care about, always has been. There’s no-one else for me Bluey.”

He snorted. “Told Jago that have you? And the others?”

“Please,” she rested a slender hand on his thigh, “Don’t let’s part on bad terms. I know what I did was awful. I was so worried for you and you just kept pushing me away and it hurt. I know that’s no excuse for hurting you back, or for the things I said…”

Cormoran took a deep breath. A couple of minutes earlier he’d been ready to simply get up and walk away from her, but now he found he couldn’t move. He was acutely aware of the scent of Shalimar on her skin and the warmth of her fingertips through his jeans. The storm was closer now, the thunder louder, the patter of rain audible in the distance.

“You’re not going to stop me leaving, Charlotte. I need to do this.”

“I know, I realise that now. And I won’t try to stop you but…I’ve got a car here. Come back to the flat with me, we can talk, clear the air before you leave at least?”

Her fingers slid up his thigh and tangled with his. Thunder rumbled overhead and the heavens opened. She made no attempt to move. He turned to look at her, raindrops sparkling across her pale skin and turning her white dress almost translucent. Her eyes were pleading, her hand felt so small and soft in his and he knew he was already lost.

“Let’s go,” he said.

And hand in hand, they ran to the waiting car, all thoughts of fathers, good, bad or otherwise, banished from Cormoran’s mind.


	6. June 2000

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Strike ponders parenthood at his baby nephew's christening.

Ted and Joan’s garden was a riot of colour, warmth and gentle, happy noise. Ted had been sowing, pruning and tending for months in preparation for today, and watching his uncle from the patio as he took a swig of his beer, Strike thought it was hard to tell whether he was prouder of his prize ‘Nelly Moser’ or of his great nephew.

In the kitchen lay a spread of food that Joan had spent the previous two days creating, the centrepiece of which was a tier of Lucy and Greg’s wedding cake, re-iced in pale blue fondant with tiny white footprints and the baby’s name and date.

Adam, Lucy’s five-month old son, had been christened at St Mawes Church an hour earlier, and was now contentedly feeding in his mother’s lap beneath a white pop-up gazebo bedecked with ribbons and streamers in assorted shades of blue. Strike was relieved to see the pair of them thoroughly occupied. He’d already been forced to hold the squirming bundle of human for family photos, which had delighted Lucy, and he had no desire to be accosted in such a way again.

Having just returned from a tour of duty in Bosnia, Strike was more than a little baffled by the fuss over such a tiny, oblivious creature. A few of his fellow soldiers had kids, but he knew little about them. None of his closest friends had seen fit to settle down and procreate…yet.

“No Charlotte then?” observed his friend Nick, arriving by his side with fresh beers for them both. He had recently started dating Strike’s childhood best friend Ilsa for the second time and they’d both been invited to the service.

“No,” replied Strike bluntly. He wasn’t in the mood to elaborate on the row they’d had the previous week, regarding his attendance at his nephew’s christening.

_“You’ve only been back a week and you’re already buggering off again. It’s not as if you like babies and Lucy and Greg drive you round the fucking bend!”_

She had been correct on every count to be fair. Although Strike loved his sister, her desire for safety and stability baffled him just as his endless curiosity and determination to uncover the truth perplexed her. As for Greg, he was, thought Strike, truly a man that should have come of age in the Eighties, when ‘Yuppies’ were fashionable. And babies left him cold. It wasn’t so much that he disliked them as that he simply didn’t know what to make of them. He could not for the life of him see what was so appealing about a tiny human whose only medium of communication was endless screaming, and whose only functions in life appeared to be feeding and crapping.

Nick was still weighing his options as to how to respond when Greg appeared.

“Alright Corm,” he greeted his brother in law with a hearty slap on the back. “No Charlotte then…” Nick winced at the expression on Strike’s face, whilst Greg carried on oblivious. “Don’t tell me, you’ve kept her away because you don’t want her getting broody?”

“Something like that,” replied Strike, his terse tone completely lost on his ebullient brother-in-law.

“Still you’ll have to think about it one of these days mate, settling down, starting a family. I’ll tell you something,” Greg had clearly had a celebratory drink too many already and was a little misty-eyed. “Nothing quite compares to hearing the midwife congratulate you on the birth of your son. And then a christening on Father’s Day…bloody perfect.”

“Hmmm,” was all Strike could manage. His thoughts drawn unwillingly to his own ‘father’ who clearly couldn’t have cared less about the birth of his son…at least his first born. According to the occasional glimpse of celebrity magazines on newsstands, Strike was aware that Rokeby was making a much better job with his two younger half-brothers, even if he had long since moved on from their mother to yet another new woman.

He wondered idly what Leda would have made of becoming a grandmother. She would only have been forty-six now. He imagined her feigning horror at becoming a gran at such a relatively young age, then fussing endlessly over Lucy and eventually becoming a doting and no doubt highly indulgent grandparent.

Rick, Lucy’s father, who was yet to turn fifty himself, was holding the baby now, singing to him as he rocked him back and forth while Lucy protested that it was too soon after his feed, and was quickly proved correct as little Adam regurgitated a significant portion of it over his grandfather’s shoulder.

“Yeah, can see why Charlotte would want to avoid that,” grinned Nick. “Are you guys okay though?”

Nick had met Charlotte on a handful of occasions during the course of her and Strike’s erratic relationship and was yet to warm to her. Sure, she was staggeringly beautiful, intelligent and quick-witted. Strike had, on one or two somewhat indiscreet, alcohol fuelled occasions, alluded to the fact that it wasn’t just her sense of humour that was filthy. Nick understood what his friend saw in her in theory, but in practice, he wasn’t so sure. Privately, and more recently to Ilsa, he’d wondered if she had some kind of personality disorder, but he knew Strike well enough to keep his opinion to himself. And after all, he was training to be a gastroenterologist, not a psychiatrist.

“Yeah, we will be. You’re right though, this definitely isn’t Charlotte’s scene. Thank Christ.”

“Not tempted to produce a little cousin for Adam then?” teased Nick.

“Not happening. Ever.” Strike’s tone brooked no argument.

He had come to the conclusion in his late teens that fatherhood was not for him, but generally kept that decision to himself. He knew how it went when the subject cropped up, which was happening more frequently now he was in his mid-twenties.

_"Oh, you don’t mean it!"_

_"You’re still so young, you’ll change your mind."_

_"Just you wait until you meet the right woman."_

The thing was, he did mean it. Ted had been a wonderful uncle and an excellent father-figure as he was growing up, but he could see from Lucy’s relationship with him, in comparison to her relationship with Rick, that it was simply not the same. Lucy adored Ted and Joan, but there was a connection inherent in her relationship with Rick that somehow transcended that, despite him having never lived with them.

The fact that Strike had never known such a paternal bond made him doubt his ability to establish the same with a child of his own. It was not a theory he wished to put the test. The sins of the father stopped with him and he had no intention of inflicting any inherited failings of Rokeby’s on someone else.

As for meeting the right woman, he wasn’t sure anyone would describe Charlotte as ‘right’. He knew only too well that she was not popular with most of his friends. Ilsa in particular found it difficult to hide her dislike of the woman he had spent most of his adult life with, albeit on and off, yet Charlotte didn’t give a shit about any of them, and he couldn’t help admire her attitude, which mirrored his own towards her aristocratic friends.

Best of all, she had no more interest in having children than he did. Like Strike, Charlotte believed that she would not make a good parent, and they agreed that together they would be a train wreck, Strike knew only too well how that could play out.

He was interrupted from his rather dark train of thought by the arrival of Ilsa, slipping her hand into Nick’s.

“He’s so cute, isn’t he?” she smiled up at her boyfriend.

“Who? Oggy? Yeah if you like that sort of thing I s’pose,” he deadpanned in return.

“Idiot,” laughed Ilsa. “I’m going to get another drink, do you two want more beer?”

They both nodded enthusiastically.

“Looks like you might be next in the firing line then mate,” Strike joked to Nick, whose gaze had moved from Ilsa’s retreating figure back to the guest of honour, who was gurgling happily at his parents as they posed, proud and smiling, for yet more photos.

“Maybe,” he replied with a soft smile, making Strike look at him in surprise.

“Really?”

“Well, not yet. I mean, we’ve only just got back together but yeah, one day hopefully.”

Despite his dislike of babies and mixed emotions during the course of the christening, Strike felt a sudden wash of happiness of behalf of his best friends.

“Just make sure you look after Ilsa this time. I know you didn’t mean to hurt her before but…” Strike warned his friend, mock sternly.

“Alright Dad!” laughed Nick.

“I mean it,” he reiterated. “And when the time comes for Christ’s sake don’t ask me to be Godfather!”


	7. June 2005

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Strike is back on leave and pays a visit to Ilsa and Nick at their new home in Octavia Street, but the evening ends in heartbreak.

“Oggy! Welcome to the new abode,” Nick greeted his old friend with a hearty man hug. “Great to have you back, mate.”  
Strike had been back from Germany for just over a week and was finally visiting the Herberts in their new home for the first time. They’d been married for almost four years now and just made the move to Victorian semi in Octavia Street, Battersea.

Although it was late on Saturday afternoon, Ilsa was holed up in their spare room, making last minute preparations for a court case the following Monday, so after a quick hello, Strike and Nick headed out to the garden with their beers and waited for her to finish so they could order their curry.

“Nice place,” commented Strike, approvingly, surveying the pretty walled garden at the end of his tour of the house.

“Yeah,” agreed Nick, “You don’t want to see the mortgage repayments though. So, how’s thing’s with you? Ilsa said you and Tracey have split up.”

Strike, mouth full of Doom Bar, nodded.

“Shame, you two seemed good together when we met her last time you were home. She was fun…and sane.”

Strike chuckled at his friend’s oblique dig at Charlotte.

“She was fun and sane, and sexy…” he pouted ruefully.

“So? What went wrong?”

“Big 3-0 mate. We started taking about plans for our leave. I was thinking catch up with friends and family, sleep, maybe a decent holiday somewhere…” he paused and took another swig of beer, “Tracey was thinking house hunting, ring shopping and fertility planning.”

“Oh, quite a disparity there.”

“Yup, not much middle ground to be had so…that was that.”

“How did she take it?”

“Well, it was mutual enough. I mean, neither of us would have chosen to end it in other circumstances but when you want such different things…”

“Or don’t want them?”

“Exactly. I’ve never made a secret of how I feel about kids. I guess she thought I’d change my mind, they all bloody do, except…”

“Charlotte.”

Strike’s phone bleeped in his pocket. He pulled it out, scanned the screen, smirked and tapped a reply before laying it face down on the table.

“Tell me that’s not her crawling out of the woodwork already Oggy?”

“Sorry mate, no can do,” he grinned unashamedly. “Got to get my R & R somewhere and we’re on the same page about what we want so…”

“Ilsa will not be impressed.”

“Don’t tell her then. Fag?”

He offered Nick the packed of Benson & Hedges. Unlike Strike he was merely a social smoker.

“No thanks.”

Strike eyed him suspiciously.

“Have you given up?”

“Yeah, seemed like the right time, y’know…” Nick was blushing slightly, unable to meet Strike’s eye.

Like he had never made any secret of not wanting children, Nick and Ilsa had always been quite open about their desire to start a family. Strike had suspected developments might be on the cards when they’d moved from their flat to the house, so Nick’s reaction came as little surprise.

He was, despite his own aversion to the idea of having children, thoroughly looking forward to seeing his two best friends become parents. He’d known Ilsa since they were six, Nick since their mid-teens. They both came from the kind of stable family backgrounds that Lucy had envied and Strike himself had been distantly fascinated by in a scientific kind of way. Nick’s father, hard-working, practical, affable and devoted to his wife and children was exactly the kind of role model any man thinking of embarking on parenthood would want.

“Planning to start work on the little Herbert’s soon then?” grinned Strike.

Nick blushed even deeper, picking at the label on his beer bottle. He’d promised Ilsa, but with Strike’s questioning eyes on him, his trademark silence filling the air, he couldn’t help himself.

“Erm…might be a bit past the planning stage,” he admitted, unable to stop himself beaming from ear to ear.

“Bloody hell mate!” exclaimed Strike, “Congratulations that’s fantastic news.”

“It’s really early days, we weren’t planning on telling anyone until the twelve-week scan but as you’ve winkled it out of me…”

“Didn’t take much!”

“I know,” he admitted, “Ils will kill me, but I’m so chuffed. We’re seeing my dad on Sunday and I’m not allowed to tell him. Her parents are coming up for our anniversary weekend next month and she wants to tell them all together.”

“So, what are you hoping for, boy or girl?”

“I could not care less,” Nick was still grinning like an extremely loved up idiot, “They’ll be a little bit of me and hopefully a lot of Ilsa. Whoever they are it’s just going to be a brilliant adventure. I can’t wait.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Strike saw Ilsa approaching the doorway and turned to greet her, but as she stepped from the shade of the kitchen into the garden his smile vanished.

She was ashen faced, wide-eyed and dazed, her breathing visibly faster than normal.

“Nick,” she addressed her husband, seemingly oblivious to Strike’s presence. “I’m bleeding.”

* * *

They didn’t get as far as a curry that evening. Strike drove them both to the hospital in Ilsa’s little Peugeot, focussing on the road as best he could and trying to filter out the sound of Nick whispering words of reassurance to his terrified wife.

He consumed two Double Decker’s and a pint of black coffee whilst waiting from them to reappear, dwelling on the crippling unfairness of what his best friends, who would make such wonderful parents were going through, what he now knew his own much-loved aunt and uncle had endured countless times, when for other people having children seemed effortless. He sent a silent prayer to whatever god might be listening that fate would be kinder to Nick and Ilsa than it had been to Ted and Joan.

Hours later, Strike drove them home in silence and waited, at Nick’s request, while he put Ilsa to bed with painkillers and a hot water bottle, despite the midsummer temperatures. When he arrived back downstairs just before midnight, Strike had a large whisky waiting for him.

“I’m so sorry mate,” he said, handing him the glass of amber liquid. Ten years in the army, a medal for saving a fellow soldier’s life, all manner of difficult situations dealt with. He had never felt more inadequate or lost for words.

Nick sank into the sofa, looking utterly defeated.

“They said it was just bad luck, no reason why we can’t try again,” he rationalised, putting his doctor head into gear, the better to delay dealing with his own feelings, “Ten to twenty percent of pregnancies end in early miscarriage…” his voice broke on the final word.

Strike, who in his teens had often comforted an emotional Ilsa over one adolescent drama or another, slung an arm around her husband, and left it there until Nick had sobbed himself into exhaustion, and taken himself off to bed.

Stepping out into the night, Strike, too wired to even consider going home to sleep, lit a cigarette, strode out on to Battersea Bridge Road and hailed a cab.

“Holland Park Avenue please mate.”


	8. June 2011

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As Strike prepares for a date with Elin, he worries that she might be about to raise the subject of him meeting her daughter. His thoughts on stepfathers lead him to the realisation that, had things turned out differently with Charlotte, he may have been a father himself by now.

Strike finally dragged himself away from his desk at 5pm on Sunday evening and hauled him himself reluctantly upstairs to shower and get ready for his date with Elin.

She had called earlier in the week to suggest they make a weekend of it, maybe even go away somewhere. It was Father’s Day and her ex-husband had their daughter for the weekend. Strike had pleaded work commitments, due to Robin’s absence – she was back in Masham finalising plans for her wedding to Matthew, which was now back on - and Elin had agreed, with a certain amount of froideur to stick to their usual arrangement of dinner and back to hers.

Strike had been feeling increasingly unenthusiastic about their dates in recent weeks. He sensed a degree of dissatisfaction with their quiet dinner dates in out of the way bistros and his frequent quick getaways the morning after due to work commitments. At the same time, Elin’s divorce was nearly finalised, and she was asking his opinion on properties she was looking to buy. He had an uncomfortable suspicion that a conversation about him meeting her daughter was likely to be on the cards soon.

As he began the rather trying process of removing his prosthesis and manoeuvring his way into the shower, Strike could think of few things that held less appeal. He was resolutely disinterested in children. He had two Godsons and three nephews with whom he had the bare minimum of contact, and little girls were a complete anathema to him. Dave Polworth, his long-standing friend from Cornwall had daughters, but on the rare occasions he had seen them they had been a mere flurry of ponytails and pop music in the background of whatever else was going on.

It wasn’t only his general lack of ease with children that made Strike reluctant to engage with Elin’s daughter, but his own experiences growing up. Leda, despite her intense love for and pride in her children, had always been, in Strike’s adult opinion, perhaps a little too fond of male company. His own feelings about the men his mother had brought back to the succession of houses, flats, squats and communes in which he and Lucy had spent their childhood were largely ambivalent, Whittaker aside. But he’d seen at close hand the impact their presence had had on his sister. He’d watched the anxious expression on her face every time a new boyfriend was introduced, shielded her as best he could from seeing or overhearing some of the more personal interactions that went on, invariably in homes with paper thin walls. Ultimately, he’d done his best to protect her during the hellish months with Whittaker before she’d fled to the phone box at the corner of the street in her nightclothes and begged Ted and Joan to take her back to St Mawes.

The idea of being a stepfather, he realised, was even more abhorrent to him than the notion of fathering a child of his own.

The thought triggered a sudden realisation for Strike. Had Charlotte been telling the truth, had things turned out differently, he might actually have been a father by now.

He wrapped a towel round his waist, grabbed his crutches and made the few steps across the tiny sitting room to his armchair where his cigarettes and ashtray were waiting for him. He lit up and inhaled slowly as he recalled her announcing her pregnancy and the many fraught conversations that followed. He’d never seen the test, which she claimed to have taken at her mother’s, in itself enough to set alarm bells ringing in Strike’s head. Charlotte had never gotten on with her mother, so why on earth would she choose to do something so momentous in her company?

Then there had been the ambiguity of the dates, of how far along she was. When Strike had suggested that she pay for a private scan to ascertain the stage of the pregnancy, he was invariably met with hysterics and accusations.

“I can’t…I can’t cope with that yet…seeing it…it will make it all seem real.”

“Well if you are pregnant then it is real and we need…”

“What are you saying Bluey? That you don’t believe me?”

“I’m not saying that…”

“What then? You don’t think it’s yours? I’ll just get rid of it then, it won’t matter to you if you don’t believe it’s your baby…”

“Charlotte, be rational…”

“Easy for you to say Bluey, you’re not the one being accused of cheating…”

And so the mind games had gone on and on until the day he came home, ridiculously late after a day’s surveillance, only for her to announce it was over. She’d accused of him of being glad that she’d lost the baby, and his response had been neither fast nor coherent enough to prevent the downward slide from that point into the filthy row that had ended with him walking across London, nursing a split lip from the ashtray she’d hurled after him as we walked out the door.

The truth was, he’d been relieved. He’d never seen himself becoming a father and the thought that he might not have choice in the matter had terrified him more than he had ever admitted to anyone other than himself, and even that had been a struggle.

Ted had been an incredible role model, the best father figure he could have hoped for in the absence of an actual dad. But what if the ability to parent was genetic? What if he was destined to be the kind of parent Jonny Rokeby had been to him? Or rather not been. Sure he’d been actively involved in the lives of his other six children, but the fact he could do that and exclude the seventh, even after his paternity was proven spoke to Cormoran of something deeply flawed within his psyche. He had no intention of discovering if had inherited it and potentially inflicting it on another human being.

But if Charlotte’s pregnancy had been real, if it had continued…

She had appeared as shocked as he had been by the news, although he had never stopped wondering whether that was because the baby was not in fact his, and its arrival would prove the point. She had not wanted children any more than Strike had…it was one of the things that kept pulling him back to her every time another relationship floundered on his unwillingness to embrace the idea of parenthood. The fact it was a difficult conversation they didn’t need to have was undoubtedly part of Charlotte’s appeal.

And yet faced with an unplanned pregnancy, and shocked and terrified as she was, she had never raised the subject of termination. Strike knew that meant nothing in the grand scheme of things. Charlotte was erratic, impulsive and not given to considering the consequences of her actions. It was entirely possible that on the spur of the moment, she’d have made an irrevocable decision. Still, it was a doubt that niggled in his mind. There would have been no reason for her not to discuss it with him if that had been her preference, so maybe, just maybe she had been telling the truth.

The mythical baby, as he now thought of it on the rare occasions it entered his head these days would have been, he guessed, around seven or eight months old by now. There would have been a wedding, because he would have insisted on it. Strike harboured no traditional views about children being born out of wedlock, or romantic fantasies about weddings, but what he did have was a thorough working knowledge of the machinations of Charlotte. He would have been compelled to ensure his status as the child’s father was enshrined in law, and the bottom line was that he couldn’t have relied upon that happening any other way. They would have been bound together, for better for worse.

His mind wandered, much to his chagrin, to Robin, back home in Masham. He’d interrupted her wedding dress fitting when he’d called her the previous day. He still couldn’t fathom why she was going ahead it with it after discovering Matthew’s infidelity, and he’d given the subject far more thought than was necessary or wise. Granted Cunliffe’s affair had been a long time ago, but given why and when, not to mention the fact it had lasted eighteen months? That was not a small aberration in Strike’s book. It spoke, he supposed, of the nature of Robin’s character that she could find it in herself to forgive him for such a massive breach of trust and his own thoughts on the subject were neither here nor there. He wondered briefly if Michael Ellacott was aware of the reason’s behind the brief hiatus in his daughter’s engagement, and if so, how he felt about the impending wedding.

_If I had a daughter…_

Where the fuck had that come from?

Strike put his errant, rambling thoughts down to tiredness, the nuances of the Shacklewell Ripper case and his mild anxiety that Elin might be about to about to raise the question of him meeting her daughter. He supposed it was unnecessary really, now that it would be easy enough to call it a day. He’d been having doubts for a while, the self-sufficient carapace that had first attracted him having given way to a woman who was far needier than he’d imagined. But it had suited him to remain in the relationship particularly when…well, that was irrelevant now.

He finished dressing and checked the time. He had half an hour to kill before he needed to leave for the short walk to Covent Garden where he and Elin were meeting for dinner.

Taking a beer from the fridge, he popped the cap, sat at his little Formica table and pulled out his phone to make the call he made every Father’s Day, although neither of the participants ever referred to it’s significance. After three rings, a familiar voice reached his ear from the other end of the line.

“'Ello Cormoran, how are you doing?”

“I’m good Uncle Ted,” he lied. “How are you?”


	9. June 2014

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Strike's anxiety almost gets the better of him on a visit to the hospital, but Robin's there to hold his hand...and make him think.

The smell of stocks and tarmac hit Strike immediately as he opened the door of the Land Rover in the hospital car park, and briefly reminded him of another time and the one small but significant positive memory he associated with hospitals.

His smile began to slip however, as they approached the sliding entrance doors and the scent gave way to that of disinfectant combined with coffee from the branch of Costa that sat to left of the reception and waiting area. Robin slipped her free hand into his and gave it a squeeze.

“You can’t see them with a look like that on your face, Cormoran,” she chided him gently, “Are you sure you want to do this? They wouldn’t mind if we waited you know.”

“I know,” he said, taking a deep breath, as they continued down the corridor to the lifts. “But it’s good of them to ask us, it’s just family otherwise and besides,” he put his arm round her and pulled her into a hug, “I know how much you want to see them.”

She smiled up at him, blushing slightly.

“Well, yes, I do. I had to wait to see Katie’s baby and Stephen and Jenny’s so this is a bit special.”

“You’re such a softie, Ellacott,” he grinned, dropping a kiss on her head as the lift pinged to announce its arrival on the second floor.

They followed the signs to Amber Ward where they had to wait for someone to answer the security buzzer and allow them in. They gave their names and followed them down a short, stiflingly hot corridor to where a door into a small side room stood ajar. They knocked and went in.

“Oggy, Robin!” exclaimed Nick, in an enthusiastic but hushed tone, “It’s great to see you.”

Ilsa, propped up by a mound of pillows, waved from her bed. She looked pale and tired but blissfully happy.

“Come on in,” she waved them over, “…and meet our little Herberts.”

Beside the bed were two clear plastic cribs. In one a baby girl in a white bodysuit patterned with tiny rainbows. In the other a baby boy, in a blue and white striped babygrow. Strike peered into the crib and read the writing across it which declared the tot ‘Spurs Tiniest Fan’.

“Poor little bugger,” he commented, shaking his head, then turning and grinning at his friends, “Congratulations, you two.” He bent and kissed Ilsa on the cheek, “Great job Ils. How are you feeling?”

“Shattered,” she replied, reaching to give Robin’s hand a welcoming squeeze as she sat down in a chair next to the bed, “You’d think just lying back while they pull them out of the sunroof would be easy but bloody hell…not sure how I'm going to top this as a gift for future Father's Days either,” she quipped.

“You look wonderful,” said Robin, handing her a small package.

The gift bag that she’d passed to Nick contained clothes and a small cuddly toy each for the babies, but she’d also brought something along for Ilsa, which she was now eagerly unwrapping, while Nick gently scooped his son out of his crib to show him off.

“This is Oscar Santo Herbert,” he beamed, whilst Robin tried to suppress a smirk at the expression of barely suppressed horror on Strike’s face at the thought that he might be required to hold the tiny human. Instead he admired him from the safety of his father’s arms until he was replaced in his crib and swapped for his sister.

“And this…” he lifted his tiny daughter aloft, “…is Jessica Merryn.”

“Who has well and truly knocked me into second place on Nick’s favourite girls list,” laughed Ilsa as she watched her husband gazing adoringly at their tiny daughter. Right on cue the little girl gave a succession of spluttering sobs and began to cry loudly.

“You’re definitely number one on hers though,” replied Nick, handing her to Ilsa.

“We’ll give you some space,” offered Robin, knowing that if she was in the first few days of breastfeeding, she wouldn’t want an audience.

“You’re fine,” she said, “But Nick, why don’t you and Corm go and get us all some drinks?”

Strike was already halfway out of the door.

The two men headed down to Costa and decided to order drinks for themselves and have them there to the give Ilsa some extra time, before taking some back up for her and Robin.

“So…” grinned Strike at his besotted friend, “You’ve finally done it then mate.”

“It doesn’t feel like I’ve done much at all in comparison to Ils. She’s gone through so much to get us here, the drugs, testing, procedures, then all the pregnancy stuff and what basically amounts to major surgery yesterday…I’m in awe of her Oggy, I really am.”

Nick was clearly struggling to get his emotions under control.

“You know she couldn’t have done it without you either Nick. Yes, she’s had to endure a huge amount physically, no one can deny that, but psychologically you’ve both been on a massive journey…”

Nick looked at his friend, amused.

“Listen to you after nearly a year with the psychologist.”

Strike just grinned and shrugged.

“How’s it going for you two? You still seem really happy.”

“Yeah, I am. We are. It’s kind of weird to be honest, but in a good way, obviously.”

“I’ll second that…Ils and I were getting exhausted with waiting for the two of you to sort yourselves out. So what’s next then?”

“What do you mean?”

“Oggy, you know what I mean…you’re going to have to start looking for somewhere else to live as well as a new office soon for a start. Will you ask Robin to move in with you?”

Strike took a sip of his coffee while he pondered Nick’s question. He’d thought about little else since the letter about the sale of Denmark Street had landed on his doormat six weeks previously. They were together four or five nights a week now, but it was still nice to have the option of a bit of space. He didn’t doubt that they could live together, but whether they should, and whether they should do it yet was another matter.

Strike had promised himself after Charlotte that he would never tell another woman he loved her unless he was certain he could make a life with her. Robin had been that woman. He’d known it before they’d even got together, and once they had it been only a matter of weeks before he’d told her, and she’d happily confirmed that she felt the same.

If they were to make a life together, then Nick was right, they needed to move forward, but still there was one thing holding him back. He could ask her to live with him, hell, the idea of marriage had even entered his consciousness on one or two occasions of late, but there was still the question of children.

Robin knew how he felt about them, that he had never wanted children and that having grown up with a loving but erratic mother and an absent father, he was not convinced he possessed any inherent parenting abilities. Strike was equally aware that while Robin had not thus far experienced any longing to have children, and certainly didn’t want them currently, she’d always taken it for granted that a having family would be in her future at some point.

Strike didn’t want to let her go, but he knew he couldn’t deprive her of something as significant as the chance to have children. The only other option was to get on board with the idea himself, and as he fast approached his fortieth birthday, he really wasn’t sure whether he could.

He couldn’t, in all conscience, suggest to Robin that they moved their relationship to the next level until he had reconciled himself one way or the other.

Nick was still waiting expectantly for an answer to his question.

“We’ll see,” Strike replied noncommittally, “We’d best grab some more drinks for the girls and get back anyway.”

Nick shook his head at his friend’s retreating figure as he re-joined the queue.

Back in the room, Ilsa and Robin were chatting happily and cooing over both babies when Strike and Nick returned. Ilsa was holding Oscar, who’d demanded a feed just as his sister had finished, and Robin was cuddling Jessica on her lap.

Strike silently marvelled at the ability of both his best friend and his girlfriend to make dealing with babies look completely effortless. Both women looked up, smiling as the men entered the room.

“Have you asked him?” Ilsa immediately demanded of Nick as he placed a large paper cup of camomile tea on the bedside unit and took Oscar so she could drink it.

“Oh, sorry, we went right off at a tangent. Strike, I know you made me promise a long time ago not to ask, but we were hoping you might reconsider your position on being a Godparent? To Oscar and Jessica?”

Despite his previous and longstanding jokes on the subject, both Nick and Ilsa knew that Strike wouldn’t turn them down.

“I, erm…” he glanced at Robin nervously as he tried to formulate a satisfactory response. He’d suspected they’d ask and of course he would do it, but these were his best friend’s children, and he somehow felt a considerably greater sense of responsibility than when he’d been offered the job on two previous occasions.

“Ilsa’s already asked me,” she beamed at him, clearly delighted at this development in their friendship, “I’m in.”

“Looks like you’ve got two godparents on board then,” nodded Strike, taking the seat next to Robin.

“I think…” she said, her eyes twinkling as she shot him a challenging look, “You’d better get some practice in then,” and she gently transferred Jessica into his arms.

Her tiny finger wrapped around his huge thumb almost immediately, and suddenly, sitting there with Robin beside him, the idea of being a fully involved Godfather didn’t seem quite so daunting after all.

 _Just one more Rubicon to cross_ , said the voice in his head.

 _We’ll see,_ he answered silently.


	10. June 2017

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Michael Ellacott reflects on fatherhood on his sixtieth birthday.

Michael Ellacott sat back in his favourite armchair, reliving the day’s events with a glass of his favourite Laphroig whisky, the family Labrador dozing contentedly at his feet. His sixtieth birthday celebrations, which had coincided with Father's Day weekend, had seen the entire family back at the farmhouse where they had all grown up: Stephen and Jenny and their children, Jonathan and his husband, Martin and his girlfriend, Robin and Strike.

They’d pitched a marquee in the field adjacent to their garden and invited all their extended family and friends to celebrate. His nephew, who played guitar in a local band when he wasn’t running the farm, had brought them along to play for the evening – they’d learnt some of Michael’s favourite seventies and eighties songs specially for the occasion. There had been a hog roast and a separate barbecue offering vegetarian options, plenty of salads, fresh bread and baked potatoes and everyone had sat around on hay bales to eat in the late afternoon sunshine, before Linda produced a spectacular birthday cake, courtesy of Betty’s and blazing with miniature sparklers.

Michael’s children had clubbed together to pay for a cruise on the Norwegian Fjords by way of a birthday present, but far and away the best gift he could have wished for had been seeing all four of his children happy, contented and laughing together that evening.

He knew he was a lucky man. They had experienced their tribulations over the years, and their share of misfortune, Robin’s experience at university being the lowest point in all their lives, but they had come through them all together.

Stephen had lived up to every cliché of a first-born son. Hard working and responsible, but not without a sense of humour, he had sailed through school and into university, eventually leaving with a First in Architectural Design. He’d met Jenny at his first job, and they’d married a few years later and produced first his grandson, Archie, then his granddaughter, Rose.

Jonathan had experienced a few more challenges growing up, not least coming to terms with his sexuality as a teenager in rural North Yorkshire. He’d only come out once he was at university in Manchester, where he still lived with his husband Jay, both of them teachers.

Martin had been the most troublesome of the Ellacott children. He was bright but easily distracted and lacked Robin’s flair for the practical. It was only when a friend of his roped him into a fundraising event he discovered that what he did have in common with his sister was being ‘a people person’. Much to everyone’s surprise he came home full of enthusiasm for his latest career idea, which the entire family had initially been somewhat sceptical about. Nonetheless he ploughed on regardless and five years later was Creative and Social Events Coordinator at a day centre for teens and young adults with learning difficulties.

And then there was Robin. Michael would never have said it aloud, but she had a special place in his heart that had only a little to do with her being his only daughter. He had watched her grown to adulthood full of determination and resilience, which had then been so sorely tested at the hands of Oliver Trewin. There had been the unbearable times when Robin had first come home, when she would wake in the night screaming and struggling to breathe and all he wanted to do was put his arms around her, but he couldn’t. Trewin had denied him even the ability to comfort his daughter in the most instinctive way possible. Those were the times when Michael realised, to his intense discomfort, that he could understand why people committed murder.

He and Linda would lay awake at night, listening to Robin moving around her bedroom, sometimes crying, sometimes simply unable to sleep, wondering if she would ever again be the same daughter they had cherished for nineteen years. Then slowly and steadily, after the trial, she had began to heal, until she had headed off to London to be with Matthew.

Michael had been less keen than Linda on his son-in-law. Robin had lost her spirit at some point and he could never be entirely sure whether the reason was related to Matthew or her experience at university. As a result, he’d kept his opinions to himself, even after the hiatus when she’d found out about Sarah Shadlock and briefly called off the wedding. He trusted Robin’s judgement implicitly.

He’d seen a glimpse of the old Robin when she’d started working for Strike, but it was only once she left Matthew for good, he realised that his beloved daughter had truly come back to life. Neither he nor Linda were surprised when Robin had told them that she was in a relationship with her business partner, but he had been more taken back by the heart-to-heart they’d had in the Bay Horse the following year.

“So, the truth is, I came up on my own to mull things over,” she’d confided in him, after telling him that she and Strike had been discussing moving in together. “Strike wants us to be a long-term, well, a permanent thing, but he’s still not sure how he feels about children.”

Michael had watched his daughter’s face intently, trying to find a clue as to how she might feel about the situation. He found himself none the wiser for his scrutiny.

“I’ve never given the idea serious consideration. Even with Matthew, I think I knew that would have been disastrous. I just always imagined I would have them at some point, and I’m not sure how I feel about consciously giving up the idea entirely.”

“But you said he’s not sure how he feels, so you don’t have to consign the idea to the scrap heap just yet?”

“I suppose not, but I need to be realistic.”

“How do you feel about Strike, and your relationship as it stands.”

Robin smiled unselfconsciously.

“It’s incredible. I can’t believe I’ve been lucky enough to find someone who just feels so right for me. He loves me, respects me, encourages me to challenge myself and is always there to catch me if things go wrong. Don’t get me wrong, he’s not perfect, but he’s pretty damn close in all the ways that really matter.”  
  
“Well, you know the old saying, a bird in the hand is worth two in the bush. None of us knows what the future holds, but it’s your decision, love. For what it’s worth, I think the best advice I can give you is to follow your heart.”

So, she had, to a pretty three-bedroom garden flat in Greenwich with Strike, where, three years later she seemed as happy with her decision as she had been when she’d made it.

Michael drained the last of his whisky, yawned and stretched in his chair, reflecting that he really ought to go to bed. It was almost one in the morning, everyone else had long since retired and Linda would not be happy if he woke her up. He was just gathering himself to move, when he heard footsteps on the stairs, not entirely familiar, but unmistakeable in their uneven tread. A few moment’s later Strike appeared in the doorway, looking slightly apologetic.

“You alright Cormoran?” asked Michael.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” he nodded, “I was hoping to catch you on your own this evening, but you’ve been too much in demand. Can you spare five minutes? There’s something I need to ask you.”


	11. June 2020

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An exhausting but perfect Sunday, and a short but sweet final chapter.

It was almost nine-thirty on Sunday evening when Strike finally finished clearing up and collapsed onto the sofa.

The apartment was eerily silent now, and the floor lamp in the corner cast a warm light over the sitting room and the ephemera of their life together. Robin’s pale pink shawl lay discarded over the back of her favourite ‘cuddler’ chair where she had always loved to curl up with a book and a cup of tea on rainy Sundays.

It had always been their favourite day of the week, especially when they weren’t working. Long lazy lie ins, a walk to a local café for lunch, stopping to pick up the Sunday papers on the way home. Robin in her chair with a book, Strike on the sofa with his newspaper until one of them caught the other’s eye and a cheeky grin or suggestive quirk of an eyebrow led them back to bed, or sometimes not, depending on how great their need was for one another.

He would miss that, he thought, wistfully.

His gaze was drawn to the photo on the bookshelf of their wedding day, fifteen months after he’d asked Michael Ellacott for his daughter’s hand over glasses of Scotch in the small hours of Father’s Day 2017. They’d been living together for nearly three years by that point, and he wanted to ask her for just as long, but he’d waited. As far as Strike was concerned ‘his Robin’ deserved everything, and he had held off proposing until he was certain that he was, theoretically at least, able to give it to her.

It had been Robin’s idea to marry in London rather than Masham or St Mawes.

“I want to do it where we met, where we built our lives together and where our future is,” she insisted, lovingly caressing the vintage diamond cluster on her ring finger.

The ceremony had taken place in The Victoria Hall at Greenwich Register Office, followed by a champagne afternoon tea at a local café from which the couple had departed to their honeymoon in Italy. Robin had worn a simple dress which, once Strike had gotten past being bowled over by how stunning she looked, he realised was vaguely familiar. In fact, she had taken her green dress to a seamstress friend of her old flatmate, who had recreated the style in ivory silk crepe. With it she wore a pair of shimmering Jimmy Choo’s similar to the ones she had coveted but returned prior to her first wedding, except with a small platform and a slightly higher heel.

It had been the most perfect day of Strike’s life, or so he had thought.

Then on Robin’s birthday the previous year, she had greeted him at the door to the apartment and led him through to the dining table. They’d been busy at work and all she’d wanted was a day off and an evening together at home. They’d eaten takeout delivered from their favourite Italian restaurant and as he’d watched her across the candlelit table Strike had thought he’d never seen her look quite so beautiful, and then he recognised the twinkle in her eyes.

“You’ve got that look on your face,” he said, eyeing her with amused suspicion.

“What look?” she teased.

“The one you get when you’re absolutely dying to tell me something.”

And now here they were. Hearing movement next door, he headed to the kitchen, flicked the switch on the kettle and filled the toaster with thick white bread. Having made tea and slathered the toast with butter and Betty’s cherry preserve, he made his way through to the bedroom, throwing Robin’s shawl over his shoulder en route.

“Not quite midnight feast,” he grinned, placing the tea and toast on Robin’s bedside table, then heading round and sliding on to his side of the bed. He rested his chin on her shoulder as he looked down at the tiny bundle in her arms.

“How’s she doing?”

“Still sleepy,” smiled Robin, “Not surprising after the time she took getting here.”

It had been a long labour, starting slowly on Friday night, and eventually ending in a water birth at four o’clock that afternoon in the sitting room where Strike had just been gathering his thoughts. Robin, knowing his fear of hospitals, and being braver than he had ever considered himself, had insisted on a home birth, and thankfully fate had seen fit to bless them with a safe, if long-winded delivery.

He gazed down at their as yet unnamed daughter, who had Robin’s blue eyes and rosebud mouth, and a mop of dark curls that were clearly down to the Strike genes. Yes, he would miss their lazy Sundays, but he wouldn’t have missed this for the world.

“Oh, I forgot…” yawned Robin, passing the still sleeping baby into her husband’s arms so she could get stuck into her much needed, tea and toast, “Happy Father’s Day!”


End file.
